Vertigo

All week long I was praised by my coworkers and friends for my new haircut. This weekend I went back to the salon and got a temporary dye to match my natural brown color and eliminate some of the lingering blond highlights.

I held up two dresses I bought during my lunch break to my coworkers and they awwed with approval. "You're changing," one winked. "A new you."

I'm not sure which part of me is new. One would think that I should have gone through this after my breakup with S, not four months after my breakup with Christopher.

My mom saw me on Saturday and told me I was the prettiest she's ever seen me. "You did things backwards," she said. "Most people go through the outer fix first because it's the easiest. Then they work on the inside."

But I also think my mom is giving me too much credit. You see, I'm cheap. When I was spending $200 a month in therapy, I couldn't afford a new haircut or new clothes. I also only buy clothes that enhance my appearance; I don't buy clothes just because they will do. And when I didn't like what I saw on the inside, I didn't like how I looked on the outside, no matter what I tried on. Hence my year-long hiatus from clothes shopping.

The truth is I was too frugal to fix the outside first.

When I slipped in my new dress for the garden party on Saturday, I did feel pretty. I felt so pretty that I asked Harvey and Katie to pose for a picture with me in front of a flowering bush. But when Harvey's husband handed me back my camera, I was crushed. Harvey is 5'2" and Katie is 5'3". I am 5'7" and was wearing three-inch heels that day, making me almost a foot taller than them. And when someone is bigger, everything matches in proportion: my head is also bigger than theirs, so are my ears and my arms and my shoulders. And standing next time them, I looked like a giant freak.

In the painting classes I've been taking, the instructor tells you to not compare your work with others. That as soon as your get your painting home and isolated from the other works, you'll like it. But what do you do when it's your body?

I got home that night and stared in the mirror. Nope, nothing looked wrong. Stood facing the side to check out the other angle. Nope, everything is where it should be. Took out my camera again to see if I just overreacted. Nope, still looks hideous.

And then I happened to log in my e-mail account and saw an e-mail from a guy on Plenty if Fish. The one line said that I was ugly. Well that didn't help things at all. The profile was obviously a fake one. The pictures were secondhand scanned images of some shirtless model. The description was pretty foul: demanding that his date be the kind of girl to dance on a table in the middle of a restaurant and then take her top off. He had no tolerance for innocence.

Logically, the e-mail shouldn't have bothered me, but it did. Why does there have to be people out there that are so malicious that they seek to intentionally hurt stranger's feelings? And why does it feel like I am always on the receiving end of it? I've never heard of anyone else getting an e-mail detailing how ugly she is, and everyone I've told seemed so shocked that they obviously have never heard of it happening before.

I know I'm a perfectionist. I don't handle it well when I make a mistake at work. I've never hung up any of my paintings from my painting classes; all of my friends have and they love their work, and to be honest, it does look pretty awesome hanging on the walls. And I don't look like how I should look like in my head. That's the hardest one: to envision one image so clearly and just be out of reach of it.

I'm doing better. I've bought four dresses this summer; obviously I'm seeing something I like about myself. It's just that Saturday was a misstep for me.

Do-Over

It wasn't just the same venue, but it was the same damn ballroom. The open bar was stood where the bridal party's table had been. The table catty-corner to the one Christopher and I sat at was the one where S had told me no man would ever love me. I looked down and shuffled my party shoes. The same carpet.

I wore my White House Black Market dress to the party. I've worn it at every company Christmas party for the last 4 years. I've switched jobs so much that nobody knows I'm wearing the same outfit. So it didn't occur to me to try on the dress and make sure it still fits. Of course it fits, I've worn it for four years.

Only it didn't fit.

I went to the doctor last week and learned I gained 10 pounds (!) in the last couple of months. A blood test confirmed that I'm still not regulated on my thyroid meds and he upped my dose so I wouldn't be hypo anymore. I'm feeling a bit better, but it wasn't enough to make my dress zip up all the way. Thank god I brought a shawl that covered up the back of the dress.

So that's how I ended up in the bathroom. I was re-adjusting the dress that didn't zip.

When I walked in, the infamous stall was occupied and I was glad I didn't have the option to confront it. I heard the familiar metal bar being pulled to lock and unlock the stall door. So they fixed it since S kicked it in. Any remnants of that night had been covered up so you would never know it had happened. The boy was in rehab, covering up himself.

I stood at the sink and inspected myself in the mirror. I remembered his sister coming into the bathroom and escorting me out like everything was my fault. She didn't want the bride to know what was happening. You don't understand, I had cried, shaking. He attacked me.

But S had already approached her with his version, saying he came to the bathroom to talk to me and inadvertently scared me. I laughed coldly at the sheer audacity of it.

He attacked me, I whispered again.

It was obvious she didn't believe me. How can someone just not believe a woman who says she's been attacked? How can that happen? The wait staff saw me being dragged across the floor and yet she didn't believe me.

She sighed, I don't know what to tell you. He's an alcoholic. She shrugged like it excused his behavior, like I deserved it because I knew how he can be. Like it was my fault for... for being attacked.

I don't think I have gotten over the treatment his sister gave me that night. I used to really like her and admire her, but since that moment, I really kind of despise her.

I swiveled to the side and inspected myself in the mirror. Even though the dress didn't zip up all the way, I think it's the prettiest I ever looked in it. Because I filled out the top of the dress, it made my waistline look tiny.

Besides the impromptu memorial I held in the bathroom, I really didn't have too much time to entertain my anxiety. Even though a company Christmas party is a gift for the employees, it's still very much work function and Christopher and I schmoozed with the owners and their spouses.

I was very pleased with Christopher. There was an open bar that cost the company $43 per person just to drink. I joked to him that he was required to get the company's money's worth. So he hit the bar pretty hard, but no one could tell he was slowly getting drunk next to me. He was also unshaven (at my request); he looks steamy with a five o'clock shadow. I enjoyed watching watching my co-workers' reactions when they realized the handsome man was my boyfriend. (I don't write about work much, but of the 35 employees, 33 are women in their 20s and 30s. It's like walking into a sorority house every morning. Cattiness abounds. For example, it's really cold today and most of the office are wearing Uggs. Someone is keeping track of who are wearing the real ones and who are wearing knock-offs. Mine are real.)

As Paige put it, the night was a do-over. This time we happily got in the car and drove home listening to my Christmas music. I put on my jammies and headed to Christopher's where we cuddled under his flannel blanket and watched Tropic Thunder while drinking Diet Coke and eating Cheez-Its. I had slept the best I had all week.

Hips don't lie

The other night I was able to tear the boyfriend away from football long enough to play some Wii Fit. We have a tendency to drink too many beers and decide to play the balance game, or even worse, to do the dreaded fitness test that makes fun of you and tells you how weak your muscles are.

I think I am currently 32 on the Wii Fit and the boyfriend, who had been drinking all day, was 48.

It was time for the fitness test and I loosened the draw string of my pajama pants and dropped them. If I was going to weigh myself in front of the boyfriend, I needed everything that worked in my favor.

I never put my pants back on. I was kind of hot and kind of sweaty from kicking his ass on the hula hoop game. The boyfriend's hips are as rusty as the Tin Man's. I stepped on the Fit for another round. I panted as my Mii danced with 4 and then 5 hula hoops at once.

I stepped off the Fit, pleased that I had broken a new record.

"You made me hard," he said.

"What?"

"Watching you play the hula hoop game with just your shirt and panties on made me hard."

In my competitiveness, I never considered he'd be staring at my ass the whole 3 minutes. If I had known, I would have slipped my wide-leg pajama pants back on.

You see, my ass is my biggest part of me. Whomever I date has to be an ass man. It's not freaky huge, but it's noticeable and makes jeans purchases annoying. And you can't have a full ass with skinny-minny legs. Nope, your thighs are going to be as full as your ass.

And I may have flecks of cellulite in both.

So the idea of my handsome boyfriend, ticket holder to the gun show, staring at my cellulite ass clad in 5-year-old panties (that's right, the pair from Wal-Mart with the elastic fraying away at the sides) while I was gyrating away to the hula hoop game horrified me. Horrifies.

All I can think is that he must really, really like me.

Click on through to the other side

I am so proud of myself. Really. I am.

If I had a chocolate cupcake in front of me right now, I'd stuff a candle in it and sing to myself. That's how proud I am.

Scott told me nine and a half days ago that his ex-wife's sister friended him on MySpace. His ex-wife is now three clicks away from me, and I can find out who she is and what she looks like.

I have known this for nine and half days and I have yet to click on through.*

If I was being really honest though, I would say fear is the overwhelming factor here, not self-restraint. Because Scott never shies away from saying how beautiful she is. "100 pounds, soaking wet," he'd say. "I only got with her because she had a nice ass," he'd say.

"I used to be into looks, but now I'm just into you," he'd say.**



*And to anyone who has access to my MySpace: please don't stalk for me and report back. Actually, stalk all you want, just don't tell me. I'm doing really well right now, taming the jealous beast.

**To be fair, after wailing and gnashing of teeth, he backtracked clarified the statement using such phrases as "but you're so much smarter" and "total package," and finally, "yes, your ass is nicer."

Crunch This

I called the gym to renew my membership. I was speaking to what I could only assume was a perky, caffeinated, 30-something with abs that made the skin on her stomach look wrinkly.

"Okay, Hon, well let me just look you up in our system."

"Okay," I put another chocolate cookie in my mouth and chewed. I figure because it's a soft cookie, she can't hear me cheat.

"So did you get married in the past year?"

I choked on my cookie. Is that what is supposed to happen after you join the swanky gym in the swanky part of town for a year? You get married? Was this a guaranteed result that I had somehow missed?

Does this mean I get some sort of refund?

Awakening

She woke up from her nap cradled between the arms of her brown leather reading chair. She hadn't meant to fall asleep-- she was worried it would mess up her hair which had already been perfectly curled-- but the pacific combination of the afternoon sun and the French film on TV quarreled with her.

She yawned and swung her legs off the arm of the chair and padded her way to the coat closet where her party dress hung on the doorknob. The sun which had previously lulled her to sleep had already put itself to bed. Nothing about the day was warm anymore as she shivered and dropped her jeans in the hallway and stepped out of them. Living alone afforded her such luxuries. She bent forward and tugged her hoodie off, spending a moment to examine her toenails and deciding they needed one more coat if time alloted.

In front of her coat closet, she tied the long black ribbon-- the only thing that held up her party dress-- at the nape of her neck. She raised a hand to her head and mussed up a few curls as she walked to her closet and awoke her party stilletos from their box.

Crossing back into the living room to the guilty culprit, her brown leather armchair, she paused as she caught herself in the mirror's reflection. Out of the corner of her eye, she didn't recognize herself. Now facing the mirror, she still had difficulty with the image before her. The image was beautiful.

She wasn't used to beautiful. She was used to "cute." She was used to "average, but with a great personality." But the image in the mirror wouldn't allow for such words. The hair was perfect, the dress was perfect, the complexion, thankfully, was perfect. For the first time in her life, she thought of herself as beautiful.

"Right now, in this moment, this is the best I have ever looked in my life," she said to herself.

At the party, everyone confirmed her suspicions. Her very gay boss grabbed her, pronounced her belle of the ball, and twirled her-- a favorite activity she usually reserved for behind closed blinds. Men looked her her differently, as if they were hungry. That is what desire must look like, she thought. Desire looks like hunger.

Armed with confidence and heady from spirits, she left and made her way to where old money lives and new money parties. Inside her favorite bar, she was flanked with winks and drink offers. She accepted the winks and turned down the drinks. Never in her life had she been approached by so many attractive men during such a short time span. One man in particular was kind and introduced her around to his circle of friends.

It was the exact moment her confidence waned. The other girls took her hand and smiled, but she didn't match their appearance. She wasn't tan, her hair wasn't platinum, and her skirt covered the entirety of her ass in addition to most of her thighs. But she suspected one wouldn't use the word thighs around the other girls, they solely had legs.

She excused herself from the group. He reached out and extended his hand to her and she took it and squeezed it until the space between them refilled with new people as she made her way through the crowds to the restroom. Instead of using the bathroom, she shook the last few ices cubes in her highball glass and drank the rest of the fiery liquid while staring at herself in the wall-length mirror. She shook the cubes again and set the glass down on the marble counter.

"You're ugly," she spoke harshly.

And she was awake.

Crossing the line

I told myself I would stop obsessing over my body when I could finally hit that solid straight line. The one that begins at my diaphragm and travels down to the lower abs. I told myself that when I obtained that line, I would be happy.

And as I brushed my teeth yesterday morning, I met my goal. Noticeable rib definition, an ab outline, no belly. The skin travels straight and smoothly to my nether regions without hint of a paunch.

"Just 20 more pounds," I said to myself, nodding in the mirror.

I'm skinny, I look skinny, my clothes tell me I'm skinny-- I just don't feel skinny. Even when I was a size four I felt overweight. Now a six, I'll tell myself I'll be happy at a four.

I'm supposed to be happy about myself already.